Part 3 (2/2)
The minute Bob had gone, I dragged Thackeray into the very humble restroom. It was the only place we could speak in private. It was so grotty we lit it only with candles so clients couldn't see how utterly hovel-like it was in there.
”My G.o.d, Thackeray! What was that?” I blurted in the dark.
”You can get me those girls, can't you?” he said. ”We've doubled the order based on those girls wearing my gowns at Alixe Carter's party-”
”Thackeray. Can I remind you of something? No one is wearing your dresses at Alixe's party. You made that up.”
”Sylvie, this is serious. You can carry it off.”
This was typical Thackeray. He promised his buyers the earth and then always somehow persuaded me to deliver it. Much as I didn't want to spend my time squeezing thin women into sample-size dresses that made even the size zeros feel obese, Thackeray was right about business. He had just sold another six gowns. We had to dress as many girls as possible at Alixe's fancy New Year's party. Suddenly I had an inspiration.
”Lauren!” I exclaimed. ”Alixe is having this crazy divorce shower thing for her. I just got the invitation. Lauren must be really close with Alixe.”
”Not Lauren Hamill Blount?” said Thackeray. ”G.o.d, she's glamorous.”
”Exactly.”
”Lauren's so chic. Could you arrange for me to dress her too?”
”I'll try,” I sighed.
If I could ever get hold of her, that was.
I'd called Lauren again after getting the divorce shower invitation. Although I'd been able to leave a message this time, she'd never called back. I'd almost given up on her, but with this ThackerayAlixe business I tried again. I left her another message later on that day but expected to hear nothing, and went home, as I'd predicted, having not heard a peep from her. However, I imagined that Milton, being her ”best friend,” would be able to pin her down. I zipped home from work to find Milton already installed on the one, shameful-looking sofa in my drawing room. He was wearing a heavy orange kaftan thrown over white linen pants, in the manner of a 1970s Palm Beach hostess. When I walked in, he raised his eyebrows pitifully, inclining his head toward the dismal seating arrangement.
”I can't believe you persuaded the doorman to let you in.” I said when I saw him. I flung my bag on the floor and collapsed next to him.
”I would describe your furniture as exhausted, but this place is...” Milton paused and looked around the airy drawing room, taking in the high ceilings and the original fireplace, ”chicenstein. Totally chicenstein.”
The apartment might have been empty, but it was indeed chicenstein, to quote Milton. Aside from the huge drawing room, there were three bedrooms, a maid's room, several bathrooms, a dining room, a library, and a good-size kitchen.
”What a s.p.a.ce.” said Milton, rising and pacing the room. ”Three exposures! Good lord. What do you want herringbone floors for when you've got original terrazzo down here?”
”I don't really know where to start in here,” I said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the work ahead.
”This is a beautiful room with great bones. What about eighteenth-century-Italian-inspired pale celadon wallpaper, hand blocked with silver bouquets of roses?”
”That sounds lovely...but maybe a little over the top for us.” I replied, trying to be polite. I felt a little perturbed: hand blocked anything sounded alarmingly pricey. ”What else can we do?”
”Sylvie, I have a better idea. Farrow and Ball Pink Ground-I'm obsessed with it. It's the softest pink paint from England, it would look so...Chatsworth in here. We shall not go wallpapering in this room. The view is the decor. Look at it!”
Milton, of course, was completely right. I walked across the room and unlocked the French windows, which open onto three delightful little ornamental balconies. From there all you see is the breezy, sun-blanched treetops of Was.h.i.+ngton Square Park and, above that, endless blue sky. Still, this had gone too far, I thought. I did not want a decorator, I reminded myself.
”Milton,” I said, ”I don't think I can afford you.” Surely that would put him off.
No answer. I turned to find that Milton had left the room. A few moments later I found him wafting like an orange cloud around the master bedroom.
”I think that look-done but not done-undone done-is what you want. Unstudied. Like you did it yourself. But you did it yourself with utter perfection. You need an antique headboard in here, hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, and Jan Sen side tables-”
”-Milton, I can't possibly hire a decorator,” I said. ”I love your ideas, but I'm just not that kind of girl.”
”Well, I'm a gift from Lauren, so you have no choice about it anyway,” he replied, heading toward the kitchen.
”What?” I said, following him in an alarmed fas.h.i.+on.
”I'm decorating your apartment. Lauren knew you'd never hire me yourself, so she's hired me for you. Isn't that adorable of her? Not to boast, but I'm brilliant at it, so it works for all of us. Gla.s.s of champagne?” he said, opening the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Without waiting for an answer he popped the cork on a bottle. He poured two drinks. We clinked gla.s.ses.
I took a sip, resigned: the Milton Effect was operating at a high level. It's amazing, isn't it, how little it takes to be persuaded that something you have long opposed is actually the best idea ever. Milton had me seduced within minutes, mainly by convincing me how lovely it would be for Hunter if he came back from Paris to at least three properly finished rooms-the kitchen, master bedroom, and the drawing room-and pointing out that I couldn't possibly achieve that myself in under a month. He was right. Milton, I knew, was manipulating that part of me that wanted to surprise Hunter with some old-fas.h.i.+oned, non-career-girl, newlywed-style homemaking. I knew a comfortable home would make Hunter happy, particularly if he wasn't expecting it, but I also knew that I didn't have the time to pull it off. I had to admit to myself that the Chinese wallpaper did sound divine, and Milton told me he had the most amazing secret sources for wonderful furniture. In my head I was already planning a surprise birthday party here for Hunter-it would be a great entertaining s.p.a.ce when it was finished.
”Well,” said Milton, draining his gla.s.s, ”this is going to be a breeze. It's really just a cosmetic job. I think we can complete the main rooms by the time your husband gets back. Where is Hunter, anyway?”
”He's in Paris. He's working on locations for this new show,” I replied.
”How marvelous,” said Milton. ”I must hook up with him when I'm over there next week. I'm going on a buying trip and then to visit Sophia. She has the most fabulous family place on the Ile St. Louis.”
”I'm sure,” I said.
”She's going to show me the Bourbon Palace in the countryside. No one's been in it for forty years, but she is secretly a Bourbon, so she's arranged it. You know she'd be queen of France if it wasn't for all that ghastly business in 1789.”
”Milton, are you seeing Lauren at all?” I asked, changing the subject. The mention of Sophia was an unwelcome one, and I had other things on my mind.
”I'm going over there tonight before I leave for Paris.”
”Can you get her to call me?” I said. ”I really need her help with something for work, but I can never get hold of her.”
”I'll tell her to call the second I see her,” said Milton. ”She's probably sitting in her house at this very moment all lonely, not returning calls.”
5.
Friends You Can't Count On.
That night my cell phone started ringing at something like half past G.o.d knows what time. Maybe it was 3 A.M., I don't know. I dozily picked it up, hoping it was Hunter calling from Paris.
It was Lauren. She sounded wired.
”G.o.d, he's just left,” she gasped. She was wide awake.
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